Past Connections and Present Discoveries
by Corelli Sonatas
Summary: Sybbie wanders into her late mother's bedroom unknowingly.


No one had been inside the bedroom since Sybil's death.

Having discovered the unusually accessible room's door to be ajar, a child slid past the door-frame, figuring that her action would go unnoticed if swiftly executed. The late winter season had cursed Downton this year especially, and the young girl emptied a gasp as her body felt the pangs of cold from a room that had been trapped for years on end.

She thought it to be merely another guest room, perhaps uninhabited due to how many visitors had chosen to travel home after the party (Christmas was yesterday, and no New Year's Day parties were scheduled - at least, as _she_ understood the situation). "It's lonely here," the child whispered. Contemplation over whether to draw the curtains caused her to cower in fright. Why had she ventured into such a ghastly setting? The curtains frowned at her, their colour reminding the girl of the mark of stained grapes. She averted her gaze suddenly and ensured that she was not being watched.

It was at this moment that the little wanderer spotted an elegant, cream-coloured box on the dresser adjacent to the wall that accompanied the door-frame. Sybbie tip-toed toward the piece of furniture, observing its abundance of dust and wondering whether there were clothes inside the drawers. Once she had come into contact with the dresser - her hands grazing the top-drawer's knob, as she saw this part of the wondrous furniture at eye-level - her hands searched the uppermost surface, anticipating to grasp the box.

What she had clutched with her hands, however, surprised her. Sybbie's eyes widened as a calendar dated to the year 1920 gazed knowingly at her young face, as if the two shared something in common. Was it the date? Sybbie looked round the room: translucent, black bedsheets were draped over the mattress and over the four bed-posts. A cheery vanity rested opposite the wall that touched the head of the dark bed, and yet its table-top was bare.

Turning back to the dusty dresser, Sybbie recalled her date of birth. "August," she whispered nonchalantly, her vision still deviating from the knowledge that wanted so desperately to pounce out at her. Then she unknowingly obeyed the calendar, finding it to be opened to the month of which she had spoken.

One of her hands trembled upon noticing this. There, on the twenty-sixth day of the month, was an historical marking of her birth. _Her_ birth. Astonished momentarily by the pure sign of the calendar, Sybbie thought to herself, _Has no one come in here since I was born?_

And then it occurred to her: her father had revealed to her the nature of her mother's death once before, but a few words had always remained with her.

_After giving birth._

Until now Sybbie had not possessed all of the pieces necessary to complete the puzzle. It was a mystery that she had vowed to solve, not only due to her involvement in it, but due to the aching truth that she wished to know anything, _anything more_ about her mother. Thoughts invaded the girl's overwhelmed mind now as Sybbie scanned the writing on the calendar. All but the words indicating her birth had a particular font, and in sadness she believed the pen that had written all those notes to have been in her mother's control. Sighing softly, the child announced, "Mama."

It was nothing more than a cry of reconciliation - the final bonds that had been lost between mother and daughter, since the latter could not speak of or comprehend such complicated matters of life until recently - although the words had consisted of apologetic qualities. And forgiving ones.

Both mother and child had given to, and taken from, one another. And that, Sybbie had come to understand, was life.

But Sybbie was not about to cry. No, she was not her father, who had known the sweet, "darling" (as Aunt Mary called the late Sybil Branson) woman whose death had been untimely and tragic. Sybbie could detect that much, since now she realised why this bedroom in particular had gone from perhaps the most lively place of the house to the least visited one.

Her next evidence lay underneath the bed.

If Sybbie had not been observing the curious spots of stains on the carpet (what colour they had been whilst fresh, it was impossible for the child to tell), her eyes would never have come across a crumpled-up paper on the floor directly underneath the pillow-region of the bed. Now without fear - but rather full of wonderment - Sybbie got on her knees and crawled toward the wad to retrieve it.

The forgotten piece of parchment had been a letter; that much Sybbie knew as she stared frowning at it in her hand. Thirst for more history to be unraveled consumed the girl, and before she rethought her potential nosiness, she was past the heading. It read:

_My darling,_

_You are here with me in the room where reality robbed all future prospects for a life complete with my whole family. Know that I could never blame you; the family have offered plenty of assurance that this misfortune has been a pure accident, and that no one is guilty._

_I miss us. All of us. When I held you in my arms two nights ago, the three of us close and warm and happy, I had not imagined life to be so rewarding. Now I long for that moment; now I wish -_

"Sybbie?"

She had heard her father's voice exactly as she had imagined whilst reading the letter. Forgetting to scan the end to see whether the letter had been addressed to her or to her mother (it had been difficult to tell, or so it had seemed to the child), Sybbie jerked her head away from the past and found herself staring at her father, Aunt Edith, and Aunt Mary. For some reason that she could not begin to calculate, they had all approached the room together. This had been a particular tendency for the three adults lately, and it had worried Sybbie.

She had, at this point, forgotten that she would be leaving the life she had forever known. To her memory, Downton would soon be a remnant of the past...

"Up you come, darling." It was Aunt Edith's calm voice now, her hands gesturing for Sybbie to get back onto her feet. The little girl obligingly acted as had been requested of her; and again there was silence.

Sybbie glanced back and forth from her father to Aunt Mary to Aunt Edith. She was about to apologise for her unverified means of satisfying her boredom (had it really been that? she wondered) when Aunt Mary questioned in a serious tone, "Do you know whose room this was?"

Sybbie nodded. Tom exhaled through his nostrils, neither relieved nor worried by his daughter's new discovery. Entering the bedroom as carefully as his daughter had done some four minutes ago, he approached the floor next to the bed and picked up the letter. Without opening it, he affirmed, "I wrote this years ago. Thought it would be safe in here." He would have added "from the public eye", had not his daughter commenced to spill tears onto her pinafore.

Tom was teary-eyed as well. "Oh, darling, come here. I'm not angry with you." Sybbie accepted his offer, plunging into the confines of her father's, warm, dark, familiar chest. She was suddenly home, having found at last a place that she understood well. The bedroom had made an impression on her: what was past was done. But she spoke with boldness after a few seconds on behalf of her experience:

"I love my mother, and I don't blame anyone for - for her..." The girl could not bring herself to utter the word "dying", but Tom understood that acceptance came in intervals and progressed throughout time. And when he looked hopefully into his daughter's eyes - so much like Sybil's, he thought, as they were sapphire-blue - he decided that the move to America would be a positive change.

"All right, you two," called Edith happily. "Let's return to the library whilst we can."

Mary chimed in. "After all," she announced after clearing an emotional blockage in her throat, "Sybil was always happy. Let's join the others downstairs, in that spirit."

All Sybil could do was to smile.


End file.
